


Strange, how you can live your dreams and your nightmares at the same time.

by Audrea_Lannistark



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Johnlock Angst, M/M, One Shot, aka the second angsty Johnlock RP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 16:48:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3985525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Audrea_Lannistark/pseuds/Audrea_Lannistark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Johnlock angst. “Which is the true nightmare, the horrific dream that you have in your sleep or the dissatisfied reality that awaits you when you awake?” Possible trigger for death/loss (in a nightmare sequence, don't worry). Probably not, but just to be safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strange, how you can live your dreams and your nightmares at the same time.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Silm Fan for writing John's part. Reach her at http://www.wattpad.com/user/SilmFan

AN: Credit to Silm Fan for writing John's part. You can reach her profile at http://www.wattpad.com/user/SilmFan

 

John stood, once again, amidst the sounds of war and bloodshed. He tasted kicked-up dirt in his mouth and saw bodies being dragged in straight from the field. He cluthched his first aid kit and closed his eyes, willing the nightmare to end. The sun shone on his eyelids as a warm kiss pressed itself on his forehead. Suddenly he was somewhere totally different; his shared flat, resting on the couch with Sherlock. That was impossible, of course. He must still be dreaming, and was simply thankful for the sudden change. He savored the moment, and memory of the battlefield soon drifted away. He let a soft sigh escape his mouth, hoping it wouldn't wake the (presumed) dream Sherlock. A shame John didn't realize he was indeed awake, and that Sherlock was as well.

                                                         

Meanwhile, Sherlock was having a nightmare of his own. Though much more fantastical, to him they were as real as the air he breathed. Unbeknownst to John, he was still using drugs—in fact, more than ever. Nights were spent either up and worrying about Moriarty or asleep and filled with drug-induced nightmares. He didn’t have a preference as to which he hated most. Moriarty: The one man who got through to him, who hit his pressure point long before Magnusson did. Or the hallucinations—graphic images of the ones he loved most getting tortured and killed. God, that wasn’t a lot, considering he loved few. But every morning, John was there to comfort him. A hug, a word of advice, soothing, yes, but Sherlock wished it could be something more. He wished John would be someone more.

John shifted his face so he could see Sherlock’s, and instantly regretted it. He had seen few emotions on that face, but none as pure as the one he saw now: fear. It was...strange. John had finally come to the conclusion that he was not dreaming; no. Everything was too real, and there's no way he would dream up something like this. John lifted a hand, slowly, and pushed a couple of curls out of his partner’s eyes. "Sherlock." He whispered, hoping to wake him peacefully. Though he didn’t want this to end, he couldn't let these obviously tormenting dreams continue. His right hand continued to play with Sherlock’s hair while his left was still. All hints of a tremor gone. As his heart rate picked up, he knew he should stop. Stop being so close, just stop everything. There was no way Sherlock would appreciate this, right? But he couldn't stop, because Sherlock wouldn't. Sherlock would never stop having those perfect cheekbones, or that one, true smile he saved for John, nor any of his genius.

So John could not stop being hopelessly in love with this man, he could not stop any of it. He was still confused as to how they got in this situation, had they fell asleep on the couch, and Mrs. Hudson moved them together? That seemed like something she would do. John’s hand fell towards Sherlock’s cheek, where he tapped softly. "Sherlock. Sherlock, come on. Wake up."

Sherlock tossed and turned, graphic images of John being beaten. He sank to his knees, tied up and helpless, as he watched John. As he fell face down, John’s frantic kicking and screaming ceased, his body at rest. A pool of blood trickled over the pavement and coated Sherlock’s lips. “John, please no…please.” He pleaded, although there was nothing to debate. John was dead and that was that.

He was jerked awake by frenzied shaking, the taste of blood still in his mouth. “Sherlock! Sherlock! Please! Wake up!” His sea-green eyes opened to meet a pair of baby blue ones. John. He sat up and hugged John, pulling him closed to his body. Sherlock was scared that if he let go, John would slip away. He would never let go. He could never let go. John was his John, and even death couldn’t change that. 


End file.
